


Face Meme Recemendation Stories (SU)

by SteveDuck



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Universe (Cartoon)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst, Gen, Request Meme
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:48:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26289736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SteveDuck/pseuds/SteveDuck
Summary: This is a collection of stories based on requests from here and Discord. Requests are based on faces from the grid in chapter 1. If you would like to make a request pick one or two faces and which characters they relate to. All of these stories are compliant to my "Travel's with the Pilot" series, so both canon and original characters may be requested.This is probably going to be a quite infrequent thing, but we'll see how it goes.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	1. Face Grid

Here is the grid of faces to inspire stories. Kindly comment requests bellow.


	2. Mighty Spark H8, Connie E5: The Autopsy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connie promised Pilot not to raise her blade against Roxillan on the upcoming mission to Homeworld, but now Connie can’t help but theorise as to why the kelmep made her make such a promise. With an answer in her mind, Connie turns to her mentor’s mentor, Mighty Spark. She seeks his help to immunise herself against the disgust, the horror, of witnessing death.
> 
> Mighty Spark has a job lined up that may be what the girl is looking for. It’s business as usual for him. For Connie on the other hand, she may find herself less ready than she believed.
> 
> This story takes place the day after the end of “One Week ‘til Homeworld”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Dead body, Autopsy, moderate gore, references to murder and suicide, vomit. Also racism typical of Sherlock Holmes' time period (1890s).

“Stay close kiddo.” Mighty Spark helped the girl out the hansom cab.

Connie stepped onto cobbles in the centre of London. The dimension Mighty Spark had taken Connie to was displaced in time compared to her own and the pair were dressed appropriately.

Connie wore a rather plain blueish green dress that went down to just above her ankles, along with white stockings and a bonnet.

Mighty Spark wore smart black breeches, a white shirt and a deep blue frock coat. The attempts of the coat’s pinching waist to slim his broad shouldered, muscular frame as well as the top hat he wore adding yet more height to his towering figure would have been comical to Connie if not for the purpose of this journey.

“So where are we going Mighty Spark?” Asked Connie.

Mighty Spark turned from paying the cab man. “The police headquarters, Scotland Yard. But Connie, I forgot to mention but I go by Mathew Spark here so as not to raise suspicion. It would probably be best to simply refer to me as Mr. Spark from here on out.”

“Got it!” She nodded.

As Mighty Spark lead Connie the short distance to their destination, he thought back on the previous day. He had been back on the ship he had ceded all those years ago to his then just apprentice, now son also, Pilot. He had been reading a newspaper on the guest bed when his mobile, a somewhat outdated flip phone, had rung. “Hello Connie!” He had smiled on answering. “What can I do you for tonight?”

“I need to see a dead body.”

Mighty Spark allowed himself to be surprised. He however knew better than to immediately judge or disparage Connie on her opening statement. “Any particular reason?”

He could tell Connie faltered on the other end before explaining herself. “Well, you know how I told Pilot I wasn’t going to kill Roxillan?”

“You promised him,” he corrected gently, “if I recall correctly.”

“Yeah,” she agreed, “and I’m not planning to break that promise! But I was thinking about why.”

“Why?”

“Why Pilot was so against me defending myself against her. I mean, she’s going to come back again anyway right?”

“That’s true,” Mighty Spark admitted, “but Connie-.”

“I thought about it and I guess he’s worried I’m gonna break down crying or something at the sight of a dead body.” She continued. “I don’t think I would, but I guess I can’t know for sure since I’ve never had to deal with it before.”

“So you want to see what your reaction to death is?” He asked.

“Yes. Maybe I can get used to it before we go to Homeworld.”

Mighty Spark considered for a moment. “Alright, I can probably find something for tomorrow.”

“Thanks Mighty Spark.” 

“I’ll take you on one condition. Even if you deal with death well, that doesn’t release you from your promise to Pilot.”

“Alright.”

That morning, the morning after the phone conversation, Mighty Spark had come round to Connie’s house dressed like he was fresh out of a dime novel, and thrown her a bundle of old timey clothes. As soon as she was changed, Mighty Spark had opened a portal in her front room and taken her through, much to her parents’ confusion as the portal shrunk behind them.

Now, Connie and Mighty Spark approached a somewhat grand door in a row of terraced buildings. The door was flanked by policemen with their tall navy helmets adorned with badges. Carved into the ornate stonework above the black door were the words “GREAT SCOTLAND YARD”.

The police officers barely shifted as Mighty Spark passed into the doors. As they saw Connie behind him, one of the men tried to interpose themselves between the pair. “What do you think you’re doing girl?”

Mighty Spark stopped in the door and turned. “She’s with me.”

“Mr Spark?” The policeman questioned. “This immigrant waif is with y-?”

“Yes.” He glared at him. “I’d appreciate it if you refrained from speaking of Miss Maheswaran in such disrespectful terms.” He led Connie inside.

The police station a bustle of activity inside. With Connie in tow, Mighty Spark made his way to a desk with a police officer behind it. “Mr. Mathew Spark to see Inspector Lestrade.”

The policeman nodded. “The inspector is expecting you in his office.”

“Thank you.”

Mighty Spark went up the familiar stairs, taking Connie with him. He knocked on a door labelled “Detective Inspector G. Lestrade” before walking in.

“Good morning Lestrade!” He smiled in his normal casual exuberance.

A wiry ferret of a man, tiny next to Mighty Spark, looked up from his desk with a polite nod. “Good morning Mr. Spark.” The inspector noticed Connie step out from behind the large man. “And who is this?” He asked, perturbed slightly.

“This is Miss Constance Maheswaran,” Mighty Spark introduced, “my apprentice’s apprentice.”

“Your apprentice who went over to the United States?” Lestrade specified.

“He has returned for a month or so on business of his own, bringing his apprentices with him. I decided to bring Miss Maheswaran with me today so she could see where her mentor got it from.”

“I see.” Lestrade nodded. He had met Mr. Spark’s apprentice a few times before he had sailed off to America, though undoubtably sharp in the mind, the boy was boisterous and lacking in patience, traits the inspector blamed on his mixed racial heritage. Would Mr. Iolet’s Indian apprentice be more uncivilised still? “Shall we get on to business?”

“Of course.” Mighty Spark nodded. “As you know I investigated the scene of Mr. Ranford’s fall before the body was removed last night. I am now here to perform an autopsy.”

Lestrade shook his head. “I still say it was suicide.”

“He fell from his office window on the first floor, he would have gone higher if he wished to die. What’s more, witnesses say he got up and took two steps more, shouting in a slur, before he collapsed again.”

“The concussed ranting of a man about to die to an unfortunate brain haemorrhage. He could well have been drunk, fallen out the window by accident.” The inspector argued.

“We should investigate that theory.” Mighty Spark suggested.

With a relenting sigh, Lestrade placed a key on the table. “Go ahead, he’s in the morgue, on the table for you. Coroner’s report is on the desk.”

Mighty Spark took the key. With a nod he and Connie made their way downstairs. They went down until they reached a metal door. Mighty Spark used Lestrade’s key to open the door, ushered Connie inside and closed themselves in at the top of a staircase to a basement level.

“Why is it so dark?” Asked Connie. “And cold?” She breathed out a cloud of mist as she spoke.

“We’re in the morgue,” Mighty Spark explained, his breath not becoming mist in the cold “the cold slows decomposition and lights make heat.” He produced a pair of latex gloves and a facemask from his jacket. “Here.”

Connie took and donned the protective equipment as Mighty Spark retrieved a set for himself. As he put on his mask, the former Pilot produced a visible aura of warp energy, bathing the steps in cold blue light. The pair started down.

Even with the mask covering her nose, Connie smelt her first body before she saw it, the non-electric cool was clearly unable to halt rot entirely as the odour of blood and decay hit her. As they got to the bottom of the stairs Connie stopped, she looked upon the table, on top of it, a human shaped figure covered with a sheet. “Is that…”

Mighty Spark strode forward and checked the tag tied to an exposed toe. “Mr. Ian Ranford.” He read. “Clerk, husband, and father of two. Fell out of his office window last night under suspicious circumstances.”

“I-Is his family alright?” It only seemed right for Connie to ask.

“I believe so.” Mighty Spark had ceased to smile, but wasn’t frowning or afraid either.

Connie, took his example, standing detached.

Her coolness fled her as he pulled back the corpse’s sheet down to the belt area. Quite on reflex, Connie turned away with a gagging sound.

Almost mechanically, Mighty Spark pulled out and offered a brown paper bag. “Here.”

“N-No, I’m fine now! Sorry.” Connie wasn’t phobic of blood, being a swordswoman and a doctor’s daughter had ensured that. Seeing that man, however, bloodied face and pale chest sliced open by the coroner repulsed her.

“Take it.” Mighty Spark insisted.

“I don’t need it.”

“I don’t want to hand this to you with bloody gloves if you do later.” He explained.

She took the bag. “So what do you do first?” She didn’t know what course of action she hoped he would say. Perhaps return the sheet to its former position, though of course she did not say this.

Mighty Spark noticed Connie’s inability to look at the body. He handed her a battery powered flashlight and nodded over to a nearby desk with an open ledger. “Check the coroner’s notes for me. What was his stomach contents?”

Connie walked swiftly to the desk, grateful for a reason to fully turn her back on the late Mr. Ranford. She searched the page with her torch. “Ian Ranford, stomach contents; Bread, ham, cheese, spinach, some alcohol possible.”

“If it’s small enough that the coroner isn’t sure it’s even there, we can probably exclude Lestrade’s drunkenness theory.” Mighty Spark nodded. “How does the coroner conclude he died?”

“Broken neck. Most likely from fall.”

Mighty Spark shook his head. “No.”

“No?” Connie turned around curiously before instantly regretting it as she got another eyeful of the corpse. “Oh my stars.” She murmured.

“Would you like to wait on the steps?” Mighty Spark offered.

“No! Why do you think the coroner is wrong?” She asked slightly too quickly.

Mighty Spark held the back of Mr. Ranford’s neck. The way his organs moved under gravity from the raised head made Connie flinch backwards in disgust. “This isn’t broken.” He explained wiggling the spine slightly to show its intact nature.

Connie winced at the extra sloshing and raised the paper bag she had been given in response to the sound of air escaping the jostled lungs.

Seeing her discomfort, her mentor’s mentor laid the body down. “There is something wrong with the neck though. See here.”

Being uncut and without a deathly still face, Connie found herself able to focus on the corpse’s neck. It was still pretty ghastly the Adam’s apple was caved in and misshapen. “What happened?”

“It looks like a highly focused blunt strike, that would explain Mr. Ranford’s trouble speaking, it seems unlikely that such damage could be from a fall.” He looked closer. “What’s this?” He took a lens from a nearby tray of implements and held it over the damaged area. Sure enough, there was a tiny hole in the skin. “It seems that somebody stabbed Mr. Ranford in the larynx with a syringe of some kind, though with excessive force. The strike probably broke off the needle.” He swapped the lens for a scalpel and tweezers.

Connie couldn’t bare to watch as the blade touched the exposed neck.

A minute later, Mighty Spark spoke. “Here it is.”

Connie opened her eyes, wrenching her head up from the gore covered neck to see the tweezers in Mighty Spark’s hand now held a tiny sliver of metal. “You got it.”

The man nodded, placing the needle in a little glass dish. “We’ll try to analyse this for whatever was in the needle later. Lestrade probably won’t accept it until we’ve disproven his notion of a brain haemorrhage.” He steadied the body’s head. “You might want to turn around Connie.”

“No!”

“Alright, step back though.” He lined up a curled finger with the temple.

Connie took a step back, forcing herself to observe.

Using a tiny amount of his strength, Mighty Spark flicked the head. An almost perfectly straight crack spread instantly around Mr. Ian Ranford’s head.

Connie gritted her teeth and cringed. Tears of horror formed in her eyes.

Mighty Spark pulled back on the scalp.

Suddenly, Connie turned, lifted her mask, starting to wretch. She brought the paper bag to her mouth.

Not long after, Connie sat in a hansom cab, slightly paler than usual, ashamed, and holding a new paper bag. She glanced over to Mighty Spark, riding beside her. He had gotten her out of Scotland Yard and disposed of the bag she had used without causing so much as a stir. “I’m sorry Mighty Spark.”

“It’s fine, it’s a perfectly natural reaction.”

“I thought it would be easier. How do you do it?” She asked.

“You get used to it.” He replied.

“Oh.” She looked down, wondering how many dead bodies she would have to face before she stopped feeling sick.

“Will you be alright when we go to Homeworld tomorrow?”

“I think so.” She nodded, silently thankful gems poofed when defeated.

Mighty Spark was silent for a good few streets, right up until they got to London Bridge overlooking the Thames. Suddenly, he smiled. “You handled yourself well considering.”

“I threw up.”

“And right up until then, you stayed professional and did what had to be done. I don’t think you’d break down over killing Roxillan, at least not there and then.”

“You don’t?” Connie queried.

“No. But Connie, there’s more to killing somebody than just dealing with what they leave behind on the ground. They also leave things behind on you, that’s what Pilot’s afraid of. Keep your promise.”

“I will.”

“Atta girl.”

Connie looked along the river before blinking with realisation. “If this was never about my ability to handle dead bodies, why did you bring me today?”

“Your promise to Pilot may not be about it, but you will probably have to deal with corpses when you become the Pilot, I was trying to get you ready.”

Connie looked down at her bag, feeling nauseous again. “You won’t tell Pilot or Steven about this will you?”

“Not a word.” He smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to DSDUKE, found both here and on Discord for both inspireing me to try this kind of writing and requesting this tale.


	3. D2 Pilot & C3 Ulndae; Killing Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pilot has an apprentice, a ward onto which he can instil his wealth of knowledge and techniques. Finally he’s starting to feel like he deserves his title. Then again, perhaps he is being too hasty, trying to prove himself and putting his friends at risk in the process. Pilot needs a walk to think. In the woods, however he is stalked by and old terror, one who stirred at the sight of the first black spindle in years. Out from Pilots very mind, his “uncle” faces him down.
> 
> This story takes place a few days after “Lunch with Mighty Spark” and runs concurrently with “Apprentices al Fresco”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: References to abuse, self-loathing, inappropriate touching.
> 
> Note: Underlined words are spoken in Conceptual, the Kelmepi language.

It was dusk in Pilot’s spinning heart. For the city he walked through it was midday, but Pilot’s heart could not be swayed. It could not be midnight; Pilot was often at his most comfortable when all others were asleep, and he was wreathed in darkness. Dusk was a time when his energy to face people was low, but the world threw social obstacles at him still.

That was the problem with Beach City, the residents were so inoculated to unusual folk and happenings that Pilot could walk through town in his form-fitting black space suit with matching opaque helmet without causing a scene, he did however receive a greeting from each and every resident he passed, with questions as to his wellbeing and recent activities, questions he didn’t need at that time.

Far from the well-meaning human, the canopy of leaves cast Pilot in a dim emerald hue. Pilot had walked far for this dimness and solitude. Usually, when this mood struck him, he would dim the lights on his ship and stay in his hammock. He couldn’t this time. When he did that, Axia was liable to ask him about his problems, which he did not always mind. However, when he discussed his pressing issue, Axia would offer solutions.

There was one solution that Pilot knew he would reject out of pride if forwarded by anyone other than him, though he knew it was one that he had to consider. He could not bare the thought of listening to anyone tell him to take it all back, to tell Steven and Connie that he was very sorry but he just wasn’t ready for an apprentice, let alone a pair combined into a fusion.

“It’s nerves.” He told himself, heading deeper into the woods. “I’m sure the old man worried about if he was ready when he started training me.”

“He had a better reason to.” A voice commented beside him.

Pilot knew he didn’t have to turn, the voice came from within. Turn he did however to view the hallucination.

The elder kelmep, though realistically only a few inches taller in life looked down on him with contempt. Ulndae had reached a respectable age for even one of his long lived kind, as shown by the wrinkles on his silver skin, which, along with his lighter silver hair, was proof of his hill kelm blood, free of any river kelmepi strain that made up half of Pilot’s genetics. His relation to Pilot was shown in the iron grey eyes they shared and the long pointed ears, though Pilot lacked the whiskers at the tips that showed his uncles biological masculinity.

The phantom of his uncle was dressed in his black robes, the ones he hunted humans for sport in, in forests much like the one he now pursued his nephew through. At his hip was the short spear Pilot knew the back end of all too well.

“You are such a pathetically weak girl.” Ulndae snarled threateningly. He took out his spear. “It’s almost as if you want to die.”

“You can’t expect me to fear you. You’re a shadow from my own mind and I have a lot to live for nowadays.”

“Like what?” The shadow spat.

“Steven and Connie to start.” Pilot spat back with equal resentment to hide his fear.

“Oh yes, you’re a teacher now.” He sarcastically recalled. “Tell me, what will you teach them? Will you teach Steven how to pass off blind luck as genius planning!? Will teach Connie the ways of murdering out of panic!? Will you teach Stevonnie the finer arts of taking it like a coward when they’re ra-”

Pilot pulled out a switchblade with a sleek black handle, aiming the point at Ulndae’s imagined throat. “Don’t you ever suggest that again.” He shook with rage.

Ulndae leant into the blade as he bellowed back. “I’m already dead girl! How are you going to stop me!?”

Pilot stopped in the clearing by a hollow log. He tried to think of other things, things he was proud of, his victory against the black lake’s serpent, standing up to Mihawk, fusing with Peridot.

“You can’t win forever!” Ulndae grinned evilly behind him.

“Shut up!” Pilot snapped.

“She’ll come for them!” He warned.

Enraged by the suggestion, Pilot turned and marched up to him. “She’s dead! You’re dead! I am the only surviving kelmep!” Tears appeared in the corners of his eyes. “And I killed the runners up.”

“Are you genuinely so arrogant that you believe that?” He berated. “The swordsman had her heart!”

“He could have gotten it when she was still around! She’s been gone for years! And even if she is, I can deal with her! I’ve done it before! They don’t have to get involved!”

“And you’re going to keep them away from her how? You stupid girl!” Ulndae moved to backhand Pilot

Pilot flinched at the raised hand. His fear gave way to shame at his cowardice. He fell to his knees, starting to cry. “I am a man. I am an adult. You made me one.”

“What I did to you didn’t make you shit! You had to fight back!” The imagined figure blamed. “You wouldn’t be this deranged mess if you had just let it happen!”

Those four words always triggered a response from Pilot. He couldn’t get angrier, so he cried harder.

“I thought you were a man! Stop crying like a woman!”

Pilot couldn’t stop.

“You know, at least I taught you something.” He swooped down and put a hand on Pilot’s chest. Despite knowing it was his imagination, he felt it. “You remember it. Say it.” Ulndae snarled.

“No…”

Ulndae’s hand slid down across his stomach and grabbed. “Say it!” The apparition screamed in his face.

Pilot threw off his helmet. “I’m worthless!” The cry echoed around the trees, girlish and broken.

“Yes.” Ulndae nodded. “None are a selfless as those who know their lives mean nothing. A wasted mass of shame like you should be judged by what they die instead of.”

“I’ll die to protect them.”

Ulndae laughed dismissively “You have doomed them to fill your role. You must teach them my lesson.”

Pilot looked up in shock. “No!” He pleaded, forgetting his uncle wasn’t truly there. “Steven and Connie are different! They have so much to live for!”

“Then make them worthless!” Ulndae commanded.

Pilot took a few moments to realise what he had heard, in that time his hands raised to his face and his whole body quaked in horror. “I-I can’t! I won’t! N-Never!”

“Who cares if they hate you for it? Who cares if they kill you for it? You’re nothing!”

Pilot slammed his fist into the dirt. “I.” He flattened out his hand. “Said.” His fingers foundthe handle of his dropped knife. “Never!” He screamed.

For the first time, fear showed on Ulndae’s face. “What?”

“Never!” Pilot sprang up , thrusting into the shade’s chest. “Never! Never! Never! Never! Never! Never! Never! Never!” Pilot charged, plunging his blade into Ulndae’s heart again and again. “Never! Never! Never! Never! Never! Never! Never! Nev-”

Pilot’s knife hit something solid, something real. He came back into reality with a horrible start, shocked that he may have hurt someone in his mad rage.

The switchblade pierced a tree.

Pilot sighed with relief. “Well, that’s that sorted.” He tried to laugh. Without taking it out, he inspected his weapon. There was a hairline fracture. The minor issue prompted a furious yell as Pilot twisted, breaking off the handle, leaving the blade lodged in the bark.

He knelt between the tree’s roots and sobbed in the dirt. At least he was alone.


End file.
